Unspoken (The Woodlands) (18 page)

AM

A
S
I
STOOD
NEXT
TO
B
O
in line to order a bowl of chili at a deli about two miles from campus, I wondered if Bo had magical powers. My list of reasons why I should remain aloof, which I’d enumerated on the way to the museum, seemed to have been left on the marble floor.

He did provide a reasonable justification. We could talk about the lab projects and how we would finish them. It was a flimsy excuse, but I held on to it like it was the last tissue available during allergy season.

“I’m paying for my own meal,” I told him after we had both placed our orders and moved to the cash register with our trays. He gave me a slightly amused glance and shook his head.

“I asked. I pay.” He leaned past me and handed his debit card to the cashier. “You ask. You pay. But thanks for offering.”

Short of causing a scene, there was nothing to do but accept the free dinner. The cashier goggled at Bo’s tray, laden with three bowls of chili and two bottles of milk. You’d think he was working hard labor, given the amount of food he planned to put away.

“It’s difficult for the male to navigate the waters,” Bo complained as we sat down. “Do I hold the door open and stand until you’re seated?”

“Why not just treat women like you’d treat a guy? You don’t ever hold a door open for a pal, do you?”

Bo contemplated this for a moment, untwisting the top of one milk bottle. “I have, but generally my momma taught me that you stand when a woman enters a room, you open her door, you carry her bags. I’d have wrestled the tray away from you if I’d thought I could’ve gotten away with it.”

“Good thing you didn’t try. I’d have stabbed you with a fork.”

“This is why I like you, AnnMarie. You speak the same violent language.” Bo gave a shout of laughter, drawing the eyes of the patrons nearby. I saw a couple of older ladies’ eyes linger on Bo’s expressive face. I wouldn’t blame them if they were thinking naughty thoughts about him. Bo looked like a walking sex machine. He had large hands and muscular arms that looked like they could hold you up against the wall, if you liked that sort of thing.

His whole face was engaged when he talked. That damn indent on the left side of his mouth deepened when he laughed and I itched to press my finger against it. I wondered if you hit the right place, you could jack into that smile and capture the owner of it. But for all his easy smiles, sometimes his blue eyes would flatten out and the ocean there would look stormy and dangerous. Those moments were transitory, but they were part of the package that mystified and intrigued me.

“How old are you, Bo?” I asked, suddenly realizing how little I knew about Bo outside of class.

“Twenty-three,” he said. “You?”

“Twenty,” I replied. “Where’re you from?”

“Is this twenty questions?” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Asking where he was from was out-of-bounds? I raised my eyebrows at him. He sighed. “Little Oak, Texas. If we’re playing the get-to-know-you game, I can hurry it along so we can get to the good stuff. I’m twenty-three, born August fifteenth, of Beauregard the Second and Sarah Beth Randolph. I’m an only child and said to be a sore trial to my momma. Your turn.”

I twisted my lips up on the side and contemplated asking another question, but Bo shook his spoon at me. “Don’t be a welsher.”

“I never agreed to anything,” I protested.

“It was implicit, now go.”

“Fine,” I huffed with mock indignation. “I’m twenty, only child, born June tenth, of Roger Price and Margaret West.”

“Your parents divorced?” Bo asked.

“No,” I said with finality. I didn’t want to talk about Roger and my mom’s relationship.

Bo nodded at me and didn’t press, for which I was grateful.

“What else do you want to know?” Bo asked. He leaned forward. “You can ask me anything.”

“Would you rather fight one hundred ducks or one horse-sized duck?” I asked, determined to keep our conversational topics as light and impersonal as possible.

“One horse-sized duck. He might be big, but he’d be ungainly. A hundred small cuts could take you down better than one large one,” Bo answered promptly.

Didn’t I know it. It wasn’t one big scene that had driven me into off-campus exile. It was the culmination of weeks’ worth of insults, both whispered and baldly stated. Mostly it was the general feeling that I wasn’t safe half the time when I went out after dark, as if I had some sign saying “open, all hours” on my back.

“How come you aren’t on campus much? Ellie says you’re a campus vampire.”

“Meaning do I drain the blood of coeds? Because that only happened once and it was totally an accident,” Bo quipped.

“You drank the blood of some chick even by accident? Does Health Services treat for that?” I gaped at him.

“I’m not sure what Health Services offers and I didn’t realize I drank her blood. I said it was an accident.”

“I can’t keep up.” I shook my head in disbelief. “You really drank some girl’s blood?”

“It was an accident. I keep telling people that, but no one believes it.”

I must have had a horrified expression on my face because Bo hurried to add, “I’m joking. I know that there’re any number of rumors out there, so I make a few up, just to see how far they spread and how many people believe in them.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“I’m disappointed. I thought this story would include alcohol, maybe a broken beer bottle or a tequila body shot gone wrong.”

“Sounds like you could make up a story that’s better than any real event that could have occurred.”

“I disagree. When there’s accidental blood-drinking involved, surely the potential for hijinks is enormous.”

“Sometimes rumors start from the most mundane events and what was actually drinking a Bloody Mary the morning after homecoming becomes drinking blood from a co-ed at midnight during a fraternity orgy.”

Yup, the germ of a rumor was like the magic beans in the Jack and the Beanstalk story. Planted at night and by morning, the stalks of the plant reached the heavens.

“Still disappointed.”

Bo laughed and threw his arms wide. “You make up whatever story pleases you. Spread it around.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Resentment was starting to overtake the want. It was so unfair that Bo could be so casual about
his
reputation, because no matter what the rumor was—whether it had to do with how many women he’d slept with or that he sucked blood from some chick’s neck—he was always, always the hero. I knew it was wrong of me to be angry at Bo, but he made a big and convenient target.

“Oh no, I can’t promise that. Tempting you is becoming a new interest of mine.” Bo didn’t even look at me when lobbing that grenade. His delivery was perfect. Throw out an incendiary statement and act perfectly nonchalant. I adopted his mien and pretended that he hadn’t meant anything by it.

“Be prepared for disappointment when your temptations go unnoticed,” I replied.

“Ah, a challenge. I like it.”

“I think at this point I could act the clingy, needy woman, and you’d still give me the same response,” I sniped.

“Probably.” He appeared unruffled by my tone and my rejections.

“I’m not a challenge, Bo. I’m just your lab partner and your classmate. Nothing more.”

He simply shrugged again, as if my protestations were meaningless. They probably were. After all, we had slept together. That seemed to have created some sort of intimacy even if it hadn’t been repeated.

“Besides,” I said, “I’ve heard you’ll nail anything that moves.”

A flash of something flickered across his face, an expression that on anyone else I might have interpreted as hurt. But this was Bo. Rumors about him only made him more appealing.

“While my reputation as a good-time guy isn’t all wrong,” Bo replied slowly, “I’m surprised that you would buy into it so readily when the rumors about you have been so inaccurate.”

Shame flooded me. God, I had been doing what I hated most about my classmates, imputing characteristics and behaviors based on things I’ve heard.

“AM, ask me
anything,
” Bo invited again.

“Do you nail everything that moves?” I said quietly, still not looking at him, still upset at myself but wanting desperately to know what his intentions were toward me.

“I’m not going to lie to you, AM, so yeah, I’ve had my share of hookups. All the girls I’ve been with have wanted the same thing that I was looking for—a temporary hit off the endorphin bong. I’m pretty sure that’s not going to be enough for me anymore. Not since I’ve met you.”

I did finally look up at him, and he stared back steadily, not hiding from me, willing to expose himself, or at least part of himself.

“Rumors are the very devil, aren’t they?” I said, avoiding his opening. Bo looked disappointed, and this time I read the emotion on his face correctly. It
was
hurt. I’d patted myself on the back for being so strong that I could withstand the rumors at school but I wasn’t, not really. I was soft and weak inside. I was too scared to take a chance with Bo even though he was opening himself up. I wanted to take up his offer. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn’t. Not right then. Maybe not ever.

“Tell me this. Is Clay Howard the Third the only laxer who spread the rumor?” Bo asked.

“What does it matter?” I wanted to leave. I had ruined the evening, and if Bo even talked to me after this, I’d be lucky.

“It doesn’t, really, I guess.” He polished off his first bowl of chili. He leaned toward me. “I just want to make sure that when I make it so the guy has to eat through a straw for the next two weeks that I’ve got the right person.”

BO

B
Y
THE
LOOK
ON
HER
face, my last statement caught AnnMarie by surprise. I was frustrated that she wouldn’t let me in, but someone—maybe it was Clay, maybe it was someone else—had hurt her, and she was scared.

I didn’t know how to break through to her. Maybe if I could eradicate this one problem on campus, she’d be ready to trust me.

“I don’t think violence is the answer to everything,” AnnMarie muttered finally.

Aggravated, I barked, “You threatened to stab me in the eye with a pen and skewer me with your fork.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Like you said, it’s not like I was going to be able to actually carry it out.”

I slid back in my chair, the tension easing out. I was in combat for years, and I had learned to sniff out weaknesses. AM was grasping at straws, throwing up every barrier she could, because she was
thisclose
to not only admitting she wanted me but actually taking me up on the offer I’d laid on the table earlier.
Patience
, I counseled myself. For AM, I needed more patience. “Do you want to have a philosophical discussion on violence and civilization?”

“No, no—” She shook her head but I interrupted her.

“Because I’m perfectly fine with that. I’ll even go first. Fighting in some form has been a mainstay of every society, even in some of the most civilized, like the gladiators in Rome or dueling in the refined historical England. It’s a natural event seen in most predatory species, many times around mating. Ancient texts include references to physical brutality, including the Bible and the epic poem Gilgamesh.”

“Wow, you’ve given some thought to this.” She looked surprised once again.

What was with these girls thinking I had less than two stones rubbing together in my head? Did I look like a caveman? “I go to college, just like you.”

She grimaced, then said, “Whatever our historical relationship to violence is, I don’t think beating up any of the lacrosse club members results in anything positive for me. I’m just here to get my degree and get out.” There was a tone of finality to her voice.

AnnMarie suddenly displayed a fascination with the placement of the kidney beans in her chili, scooping each bean individually and placing them on top of each other. A girl had never expressed so much disinterest in our conversation and me with so little volume. Her obviousness made me want to grin. I was really getting to her.

When I realized that AnnMarie was going to continue to act as if her food were more interesting than anything, I broached the most important question she’d left unanswered.

“Why not leave, AM?” I asked gently. The insistence on staying seemed masochistic, like she enjoyed the notoriety. But she didn’t come off as someone who got her rocks off on being a hot campus topic. None of it fit for me.

“Why should I be the one to leave?” she shot back fiercely. “Like you said, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But at a new school—” I began, but AnnMarie leaned toward me with a glint in her eye. She looked so militant that I was afraid I’d pegged her wrong. Maybe she
could
stab me in the eye with a pen.

“I did nothing wrong.” Every word was said slowly, a puff of breath emphasizing the pauses between each one, as if the spices from the chili had impaired my mental acuity.

“Okay,” I said in reply. “But I think there’s more to the story than that.”

Her non-reply was answer enough.

“You know that the only guys who brag are the ones who aren’t getting any,” I told her.

Rattled, she said, “I don’t disagree, but why?”

“Because then you aren’t talking about actual exploits, you’re playing telephone, trying to gain social power by being in the know. And then it becomes one person trying to top the other. It isn’t even about the subject of that gossip anymore. It’s a power play.”

I knew all about power plays. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I understood that half of my father’s actions were because he was a small man, not physically, but mentally and emotionally. His father was an overpowering figure, and to compensate, my old man was mean.

In boot camp, the sergeants enjoyed fucking with the newbies or “grunts” by waking us up at two in the morning to run with our rucksacks in the muddiest, dirtiest, most uneven ground on the base. It was their way of asserting their power over us. If they could have teabagged us every morning, I was convinced they’d have done that too. So I understood the
why
that led to
what
. I’d never been able to figure out how to terminate the action other than to walk away. That’s what I’d done.